Downward Spiral
by Atlas Lightyear
Summary: Now newly edited! Molly Chandler is stuck in Rapture. Possibly for good. And the only way to survive the horrors beneath the sea is to delve deep into the darkest shadows of the city. . .and into her own hazy memories.
1. i

**DOWNWARD SPIRAL**

_(Revised, Edited, and Generally More Awesome than Before!)_

**Rating:** M

**Verse:** Bioshock 1/2

**Pairing(s)**: OC/Sinclair (?) **OR** OC/Atlas/Fontaine (?) - So, it's pretty undecided at the moment.

**Warning(s)**: language, violence, thematic elements, drug use, alternative universe, unfortunate OOC-ness, no Jack. . .

**Disclaimer**: Chandler is, yes, mine. I guess. But nothing else is. . .

**A/N**: GASP! I know. It's back. Yay! I missed you awesome guys and this dumb story too much to just discontinue everything, so. Here it is. Molly is mostly still Molly. I tried to make her a little less annoying and more realistic. Some things are the same, some things are different. Hopefully 'better' different. Sinclair, though, is still wildly out of character. I know. And I apologize. But it's only fair to give you a warning before you start.

Anyhow! Without further ado. . .

**XXX**

**1. Beyond the Sea**

It almost seems like one of my nightmares. _Almost_. Not quite. Because, this time? I don't think I can wake up. Because, this time. . .I'm don't think I'm dreaming.

I don't know. _I don't know!_ I mean, it starts like the nightmares do. . .but I know right away that something is. . .wrong. And I can't shake the feeling until it's too late.

The skies are blue and clear. The air is warm. The sunshine is bright. I'm happy and I'm safe and I'm. . . I'm not alone. At the edge of everything, there is this man. He stands shrouded in a weird, swirling haze, so I can't see him very well. In fact, I can't see anything other than his eyes.

Blue eyes. He has cold, dark blue eyes, with a frozen, intense stare. He watches me, and he doesn't even blink. But there's something familiar about those eyes. It's. . .weird. Not a good weird. Or, maybe it is. I don't know. These nightmares are so confusing.

I stare back at the man and frown. I feel like I have so much to say to him, even if I'm not quite sure who the hell he is. I want to yell at him, scream at him, pound my fists into his face and bury myself inside of his arms and never, ever let him go. Tears burn my eyes.

But when I open my mouth to say something to him. . .to say anything at all, the stretch of ground we're standing on suddenly opens up.

The strange man is left alone on the surface of the world, and I think I hear him calling my name as the abyss swallows me up. Falling, falling. . . Plummeting like a dead weight from a vast, blackened sky bruised with planets and galaxies and millions of shooting stars. The wind sounds hellish, screaming in my ears like the symphony of the damned. Puncturing into my skin, carving me out and bleeding me dry, slicing me through with nails, razorblades, and knives. I'm falling and flailing and crying and choking until-

Until I can't breathe. And I can't breathe because I'm drowning.

Because this time, it isn't a nightmare. This time, I know it's real. I'm drowning. And not only am I drowning, but I am going to die. Yup. That's it. I'm going to die out here, in the middle of the ocean, where my numbed limbs are blocks of ice and I can only sink, deeper and deeper and deeper. . .beneath the blazing inferno that blankets the ocean.

Well. This kind of sucks. I'm so tired, and everything feels so strange. Float-y and disconnected. I can't feel my hands and a thick black fog is crawling in across the waves above me. Can't swim. . .can't breathe. . . My body stills, shuts down, and I drift as the fog closes in. . .as the shadows overwhelms me. . .

As I, effectively, give up.

I'll be dead at nineteen years old. Isn't that a shame? I'll be just another nameless face on the 6 o'clock news. Another tragic victim among the rest of these sinking, ghostly bodies. Who cares about who I am or who I was or who I might have been? Like it matters now. I'm just me, dying as a nobody, buried amidst the wreckage of some _miracle_ _airliner_ on its maiden flight.

A polished mass of metal that is now heap of smoking rubble, drifting towards the bottom of the sea.

A miracle airliner? Yeah, okay. I can pretend that I'm not going to be killed, in part, by such a bizarre stroke of irony, but why bother? I mean, there are worse ways to die. Though, I think the combination of irony and lungs exploding with icy salt water is pretty damn bad.

Oh well. It's going to be over soon and. . . .and. . . .wait a minute. . . .

Nope. That's all, folks. Darkness. Gone.

But. . .no. Wait. Suddenly, I'm not gone. Suddenly, I'm jolting awake, freezing, burning, with my body screaming in agony and my throat a torn and bloody mess, as what must be half of the entire Atlantic rushes up and out of my mouth and gushes from my nose. _Fuck me-_ it hurts like you wouldn't believe.

So. What the hell?

How the fuck. . .am I still alive? I can't even hold myself up. So weak, shivering hard enough for my teeth to ache. I'm shocked that my eyelids aren't peeled back over my eyes and frozen solid against my brows. Well, they might be, actually. You never know.

I think someone is sitting next to me. The ground isn't rocking, but I can still feel the cold ocean spray soaking straight through my clammy flesh. Seeping into my bones and painting my insides with ice. I'm fairly confident that, if I'm not dead, I'm never going to be dry again.

But where am I, then? And _how_? Ha. At least the temperate drop means that I'm not in hell, right? Unless, of course, you go by Dante. And only the ninth level of hell is encased in ice, so. . . Oh. Shut up, brain. You aren't helping!

As I choke out most of the seawater from my lungs, I regain slow awareness throughout my body. The material I happen to be draped across is slick, black, wet. Unforgiving and uncomfortable. It feels like I'm being supported by angles. . .stairs? Blunted stone ridges dig into my sides and grind against my knees.

It has to be a staircase. A staircase. . .at sea. Okay, so that's weird, isn't it?

I wipe my mouth on the back of a trembling hand, then run my tongue over my lips. The rough skin is chapped and cracked and stinging like hell. From all of this salt that, really, can't be salt. It burns like a bitch and it tastes like acid. My eyes water and sting from their overexposure to the liquid, a predictably swollen and bloodshot mess lodged inside of my throbbing head.

"Hey there, kid. . . Chandler? You hangin' in there?"

No. No, I'm not. Thank you. Isn't that obvious, jackass? But I force myself to nod, succumbing to another fit of coughing after a brief respite. My lungs expand and greedily gulp in deep, shuddering breaths. The night air sticks into my chest like vines of briars.

I think this is the moment where I fully realize multiple things. Like I am honestly _not_ dreaming, that this, this, whatever the hell _this_ is, is my reality. I'm sitting twisted on a staircase in the middle of the ocean. . .

Alarms blare off in my ears as I attempt to scramble backwards. Panic slams home, a surge of adrenaline searing through some of the chill.

Who the hell is here with me? And how the hell did he know my name?

"Whoa. Hey, kid. Be careful." The voice from before. A man, with a curl of a funny accent. "It's not exactly springtime. . . and I sure don't want to go swimming again anytime soon.

Strong hands clamp down around my upper arms as I pinwheel, back, back over the edge, into empty air. . . And a wave of nausea and vertigo sweep through me the moment he yanks me safely onto the stone again. The blood is screaming in my ears. My heart is pounding so fast. . . It doesn't even feel like it's beating.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a minute and cling to this stranger, as tightly as I can. Because, hell. I can't help it. He just saved my life.

Twice.

So instead of thanking him, like any normal person would have, I garble out something real smart. Something that sounds like, "Uungh." Half sob, half groan.

My head still feels congested. And, when I try and think back. . . .the memories are jumbled. There _was_ a plane, and there _was_ a crash. . . .but why was I on that airliner in the first place? Where was I going?

I can't remember. And, naturally, that doesn't help me understand any of this.

Blinking groggily, my sights finally register the man sitting crooked on the stairs in front of me. Black hair, short, slicked back off of thin, pronounced features. Thick brows. Deep, dark eyes ringed with even darker shadows. He scrutinizes me with an air of concern. . . .or wonderment. Studying me, like I'm under some kind of a microscope.

I. . .don't know him. He isn't even a little bit familiar. So, I just stare at him. Disbelieving, slightly delirious, you know the drill. My waterlogged brain can't seem to wrap around the magnitude, or the _insanity,_ of this situation. . .

After a long, painful minute, I get the impression that I should try and break this awkward silence. "Um. H-hey." I rasp weakly. My throat burns with even the slightest vibration. I swallow, embarrassingly aware of the cracks in my voice and the blush spreading across my face.

"Sorry about. . .well, ah. . . You know." I motion around us vaguely. "I mean, thanks. Is what I'm trying to say. If you hadn't, I would have drowned-"

. . .maybe I should have just stayed silent. I sound like a complete, stammering idiot. But, hey, what else is new? My face flushes so hot I can feel the saltwater sizzling right off of my skin.

"Don't worry about it, kid." The man interrupts, waving a casual hand to brush off my horribly awkward. . . .awkwardness. "I wasn't gonna leave you to the sharks. I ain't that bad of a guy." A crooked grin pulls across his face. "The name's Sinclair. Augustus Sinclair."

Right. Speaking of introductions. . . "Okay. Uh, hi? And, um, not to be rude, but how did you know _my_ name?" I stammer nervously.

Sinclair points to the front of my sopping wet army jacket. "_Chandler._ It's your last name, right? It's embroidered on your pocket, there."

Wow. Score two for me on the loser front.

"Right. Right." I run a palm over my eyes in humiliation. "Of course. I knew that."

What the hell is my problem? Did that crash landing dent my brain? Hell- maybe my skin will take on a permanent reddish hue. I could be hired at a circus as _The Amazing Tomato_ _Girl,_ with skin as fiery as her hair, not to mention the complete inability to grow tomatoes. . . It'll be one of those ironic acts. Or something.

Sinclair's answering smirk broadens. His dark eyes glint oddly in the shadows. "Of course." He reiterates lightly. "You took a pretty bad hit, there. Take your time."

He. . .doesn't _sound_ like he's mocking me. But his accent is distracting. He puts strange emphasis on certain letters and messes with the inflection behind his sentences. I think he's purposely being evasive or something. I shake my head, wince, and heave out a bewildered sigh.

"I'm Molly. Molly Chandler."

A corner of his smirk flits up for a moment, before his expression smoothes over into something more serious. His eyes are still shining, though. It's kind of unsettling. "Under these unfortunate circumstances. . . It's as nice to meet you as it possibly can be." He drawls. "So. Shall we?"

I blink at him, then, I shrug. The effort its takes to honestly move my limbs is startling. I'm exhausted, and sore, and stabs of pain shoot down my arms when I roll my shoulders back. It's. . .well, enough to make me worry. I hope I can make it to wherever the hell it is that we're going. . .

Sinclair pushes himself to his feet carefully, straightening out his drenched black slacks and his collared white shirt. His thin, silk red tie is askew and black with oil. He scowls at it, grumbles something under his breath, then extends a hand without fixing it.

"Come on. I'll help you out."

Grateful beyond what I can express (without actively making our awkward situation worse), I grasp his strong fingers, trembling, and he tugs me to my feet with a surprising amount of strength.

"Other than nearly dying, are you okay?" Sinclair wonders. He lets me go and furrows his brows. Damn. That stare of his is incredibly intense. It kind of scares me. The back of my neck prickles when he doesn't blink.

"I think so." I mumble, trying to find my footing as an excuse to look away. My knees feel like they've been filled with water and knock together unsteadily. "I mean, I don't know. I must have hit my head or something. . . .because I can't really remember how I got here in the first place."

"Hmm. Nothing about the plane nose-diving into the sea?"

I manage something that might be half grimace, half grin. "Not really." Stretching my mouth too wide makes my lips sting irritatingly.

He nods, considering this. "Maybe a slight concussion." He decides on, eyeing me closely. "But there isn't much I can do for that. Not unless someone miraculously happens on us way out here." He turns around and moves to start walking up the winding staircase. When I stay frozen in place, horrified at his choice of words _(unless? Unless_ someone finds us, and not _until?)_, he raises a questioning eyebrow over his shoulder.

"You comin'?"

"D-do I have a choice?" I mutter, and take a shaky step after him.

"Not particularly." His strange, lopsided smile dances once more across his face. "You know? I like you. Glad to have the company. Even gladder than I was able to get to you in time."

What a. . .weird time for a compliment. Wait, that first part was a compliment, right? I flush involuntarily, not quite sure what his implications are. "Yeah. I'm, um. Definitely glad you got to me, too." I murmur, shuddering in my sopping wet clothes.

"And not to be any more of a downer, buddy. . .but where the h-hell are we?"

At once, the almost-friendliness in Sinclair's face hardens. It happens so fast, shockingly fast. I blink and his eyes are suddenly cold, black, and empty. As vast and depthless as the far reaches of space above our heads.

Right. Great. Should I be worried? Did I get stranded in the middle of nowhere with a psychopath? That would be just my luck.

His gaze flashes sharply, and then he's turning away with tense shoulders. "We're _in_ hell, kid. Or we're going to be." He replies gruffly. "I've got some unfortunate business to see to, and. . . .actually, it might be crueler to drag you along with me than to leave you freezin' to death out here." He shoots me something along the lines of a sympathetic look. "But you don't want to stay out here, do you?"

I immediately shake my head, even if that means I'll have to follow him to wherever it is that we're going. Obviously he knows where these stairs lead, and obviously, he isn't happy about it. And I'm just still so damn _confused_ about _everything_ as I crane my head back to see how far this staircase goes. . . .

And I see a pure, silvery white beam shooting out from the top of a sleek black structure, towering above us like a sentry, sweeping over the carnage being carried out to sea. It takes me a minute to put some coherent thoughts together. And then my mouth flaps open uselessly at the illogicality of this. . .entire stream of madness.

"What-? Is that. . . Who the hell builds a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean?" I finally manage to blurt out. Frowning, I drop my eyes from the flashing light and look at Sinclair for some clarity, some _actual _answers, or for anything at all.

Reassurance. Warmth. Understanding. _Anything._

But I should have known better than to expect emotion like that from a guy like this. Because he just glances at me again with a thinned mouth and a pitying expression before starting to climb. "Guess you'll be findin' out soon enough, kid."

My legs tremble unsteadily as I take a step after him. Hell, he might be a psychopath and we might be venturing into hell, but I _will _get sick and die of some sort of slow and horrible illness if I just wait out on these steps with the wind and the spray. And from the sound of his previous, grim reveal, help is a long way off. If it will even come at all.

So. I'm left without a choice. Again.

I clench my jaw, take another uneasy step forward, and my knees buckle.

"Watch it, kid- shit!" Sinclair swears. His hand lashes out and wraps fully around my upper arm. The power behind his grip is as fierce and immobile as a vise of iron. I can already feel the bruises forming on my bones when tugs me closer, keeping me upright, and pretty much saving me from splattering all over the stone.

"Come on, now. You've got to be more careful." He chides. A flicker of annoyance crosses his face, but it melts into something fairly. . .human. Less condescending, and something maybe even gentle. A stiff smile pulls his mouth at an obviously uncomfortable angle.

But it's the most honest expression I've seen on him, yet. It isn't anything like that crooked grin or arrogant smirk. And this, above any other kindness he has shone me, is what eases the frantic thundering of my pulse.

I swallow. "Yeah. I just. . .got dizzy. I'm sorry."

He doesn't let my arm go this time. "It's okay, kiddo. I should have asked if you were ready to get going. My fault." He hums. I feel his hand slide down until he's politely gripping my blue, numb fingers. "Do you mind?" He cocks his head, "I kind of don't want you fallin' in again after all that trouble the first time."

Okay. This is. . .weird. I'll add it to the growing list. But it's comforting, too. He might be a virtual stranger, mental sanity in question, but at least he's not leaving me to fend for myself.

I nod sheepishly and try to convey my overwhelming gratitude without humiliating myself further. "It's fine. I don't mind." I whisper hoarsely. ". . .thanks."

"Of course." His eyes glitter. Blackened diamonds in his pale, smooth face. "Not a problem, kid."

He pulls me along and I fall obediently into step behind him. We begin our slow, treacherous ascent to the stars. . .and I'm wondering, what have I gotten mixed up in? Who is this man, really? How does he know where we are? I want to ask. I'm bursting with so many questions that my ears feel stuffed.

I remember my previous thoughts on waking up in hell, and his comment about us journeying into hell. "Is it really that bad?" I frown. "Where we're going?"

Silence stretches between us. I'm sure that he's ignoring me, so I'm about to ask something else when he, astonishingly, answers.

"It might be." His tone is flat. "It's been awhile. I mean, hell. It used to be my home."

I blink. Wow. Definitely wasn't expecting such a reveal. But, if anything, it makes me even more curious.

"You used to live in a lighthouse?" I echo blankly. "That's. . .um. Nice? Yeah. Definitely not weird."

Sinclair stares at me. After a strange second, he barks out a short laugh, mouth curling, eyes as warm as I've seen them. But the moment barely lasts. He shakes his head, expression sobering, and the shadows return.

"I'm sorry, kid." He mutters, gaze skittering from mine evasively. "I really am."

I frown, perplexed. But he offers no clarification, and I lapse into an unsettled silence.

Time passes. Night wears on. The ocean waves are fierce. They knock into the side of the staircase and drench us constantly, reeking of spilled oil and something rotting, something sour. I grit my chattering teeth and pretend that every dousing of ice water isn't like being showered with bits of sharp metal.

At least Sinclair has sure footing. And his hand is strong, firmly secured over mine. Without his guidance, I'd have slipped and definitely drowned more than a hundred and fifty stairs ago. And they keep spiraling, the worn black stairs, up and up and up, until the spray fades into a fierce and frigid wind clawing at our damp clothing.

My feet are nearly solid ice by the time we arrive at the top of the lighthouse. I'm freezing and miserable and tripping over my soggy trainers, while Sinclair is forced to practically drag me along behind him. I can't even keep my head up.

"Not much farther, Chandler. Hang in there." He reassures me. The stairs widen out underneath our feet into a flat, open expanse. I feel him shoulder open a door, hand moving to my waist, helping me inside so I don't fall flat on my face.

Then, there's silence. Darkness. Solid walls muffle the crash of the ocean below us and soften the roar of the wind. Shuddering, near the verge of sobbing out with relief, I kind of cling to Sinclair as I attempt to adjust to the sudden climate shift.

The air is. . .thick. Humid. Briny and almost bitter, but more welcoming than the below freezing temperature outside. I stumble forward and, well. . . I might _accidentally_ crash into Sinclair's broad back as he finally lets go of me. But it's too much. I forget that I still don't know this man and actually have the nerve to bury my face in between his shoulder blades. . .

But only for a second! Only until my stinging eyes acclimate to the darkness. Only until I can actually breathe without the sharpness of pain swelling against my lungs. Only until my thoughts. . .slow. Before their crushing weight collapses over my head and buries me alive.

I hope the poor guy doesn't mind. Yeah, this is kind of uncomfortable. His muscles are tight and tense beneath the fabric of his shirt as I hold onto him, but. . . I can't. I just can't help it. And he stands there and lets me collect myself without a word.

Moments tick by. Sinclair shifts, and I hear his soft voice near my ear. "Still with me, kid?" He honestly sounds. . .worried.

I choke back my discomfort and take a big step back. The floor tilts, but I keep my balance this time. "Yup. Still here, buddy. You can't get rid of me that easily." I huff.

He grins, I think. And I think I grin back, if only to mask the tremble in my bottom lip Because, I am. . .okay. Fine. I'm scared. I'm terrified, actually. Nothing is making sense, and I feel sick to my stomach . Quickly, I move away from him and try and draw in some deep, steady breaths. My gaze flickers through the gloom as a distraction from my aches and pains.

. . .it doesn't work. But I can see that there isn't anything special about this place. I mean, it's a lighthouse. It's plain and old and looks like it hasn't been used for a long time. Otherwise, there's no radio, no equipment, no radars, no personnel. Nothing.

So what the hell kind of a lighthouse is this?

And then I realize something else, as I wander away from the vaulted doorway and deeper into the heavy darkness. "Where's that music coming from?" I frown.

It's strange music. Nice, but strange. Echoing hollowly off of the wet walls, with a funny brass ring to it. Big band music from the 40s and 50s, sounding as if it's being played from a record player or one of those old gramophones. What would something like _that_ being doing in a _lighthouse?_

"This way, kid. If you're coming with me, you've got to keep up."

"Huh?" I turn in a full circle, but I don't see Sinclair anywhere. My heart gives a sudden lurch against my ribcage, and a burst of panic suddenly closes off my throat. "Hey!" I squeak. "Where'd you go?"

"Chandler!"

Oh. My eyes narrow and then I see them: more stairs. Sighing, I jog in place for a minute to get my toes warm, and then I run down two more flights after the man before he vanishes entirely. Because that might be bad. The music gradually grows louder down every step, but not to an overwhelming degree. It's almost kind of comforting.

Almost. But it's still more weird than pleasant.

The lights start flickering on as I hurry after Sinclair. One by one by one, until the full extent of the lavish marble and bronze interior is illuminated by hazy golden bulbs. It's breathtaking. Just, wow. It's absolutely beautiful.

My eyes wander over dated brass plaques covering the walls. They seem to celebrate things like art, industry, and science, and I feel myself slowing down to read them. I'm not sure why. . .but an uneasy feeling prickles at the back of my neck as I scan the plaques over. I don't _want_ to get better looks at them. I don't want to be anywhere _near_ them, for some reason. . . . I can't explain. I don't know.

They look familiar. Like the strange, staring man from my dreams. Those cold blue eyes of his. Their images are familiar. . .hauntingly familiar. I feel like I should already know why. But I don't. I don't know anything.

My skin crawls unpleasantly underneath my clothing. Suppressing a shiver, I tear my eyes away from the frozen images and resume my stumbling along. Though. . .the feeling stays with me. The itch. It's nearly impossible to ignore, but I force myself to consider the more pressing problems at hand. . .

"Sinclair?" I jump over the last two steps and my feet _thump_ down heavily onto the slick metal floors.

Sinclair is standing inside of an odd, metal. . . .sphere. . . .device, thing, that kind of reminds me of an elevator. . . .only not really. It's made of dull, tarnished bronze and full of flashing lights and levers, both on the outside and around Sinclair in the interior.

"Um, what are you doing?" I wonder curiously. . .warily. Please, no more surprises. My head might just explode.

I eye the ominous threshold with painstaking reluctance. A thin strip of metal is separating the misty gloom of the lighthouse and the eerie, faded light inside of the sphere.

To cross, or not to cross, that is the question. . . .

"Tryin' to see if I can get this old bathysphere up and running." Sinclair grunts. "It should already be working, but. . . .shit. I don't know what happened to it." His gaze is narrowed and focused on the wires he keeps tugging at and rearranging. He looks so sure of himself that he must have _some_ clue as to what he's doing.

At least one of does. As far as my limited knowledge extends, bathyspheres are primarily used for diving. As in, under the ocean, diving. So. Wherever it leads. . .has to be infinitely better than staying here in this lighthouse alone, right? Disregarding the statements about us going to hell? No. No way. I don't want to stay here by myself if Sinclair is leaving, no matter the destination or how eccentric he is. I might even, kind of like it. A little.

When it isn't scaring me, of course. Guess that means I crossing, then. Biting my lip, I leap over the serrated edge of the floor and the metal sphere sways, just a little, as my weight is added to the overall bulk.

"Are you ever going to tell me where the bathysphere leads?" I hedge innocently, peering over his shoulder at the jumble of wires. I'm not expecting a straight answer. And I don't get one, either.

"You'll see." Sinclair murmurs. How unsurprisingly cryptic. Thanks. A heated frown darkens his face as a red wire rains out a shower of sparks. He wrenches his hand back and gives it a vicious shake. "Fuck!"

Hmm. I watch him cross a thick blue wire with a yellow wire and unconsciously shake my head. "No. . . .no." I scratch the back of my neck, puzzled, but this itch. . . It burns somewhere deep beneath my skin, too deep for me to reach no matter how far I dig my nails in.

It's like an itch inside my brain. Does that make sense? Actually, it makes me sound like I'm tripping out. Which, hey, I might be. Not that this is like any Wonderland I've ever heard of. . .

"What?" Sinclair spears me with a funny look. "What the hell are you taking about? Fuck it- if you know how to start her up, be my guest." He sidesteps out of the way and the blue and yellow wires drop back into the rainbow tangle.

My brows crease deeply as I study those vibrant wires. A droplet of sweat, or maybe seawater, trickles off a strand of my hair and lands with a faint _zap_ on a red wire. After another long, silent moment, something just clicks. I don't know what, or how the hell it happens, but my hands are suddenly acting on their own accord and weaving a bizarre sort of pattern between green and yellow wires, parallel to the blue, but hooked up adjacent to the red, and the orange doubles back underneath, connecting to the main power supply. . . .

"There." I step back from the electrical box happily. "_That's_ how it's supposed to look." I flash my beaming grin at Sinclair.

He stares at me in shock with his dark eyes impossibly wide.

"This is the switch, right?" Maybe I should have waited. Maybe I should have done anything other than wrap my hand around the wide lever. One simple tug and the big metal door on the bathysphere clangs shut.

"Shit, kid." Sinclair hoarsely manages. He runs a hand through his slick black hair, then shakes his head. His surprise twists into something sharp, something definitely more than a little suspicious. A fire crackles to life in the depths of his black eyes as they sear into mine.

He looks positively manic. "How did you do that?" He demands, stepping closer to where I am desperately attempting to make myself small. "How the hell did you know which wires went where?"

I don't think he means to scare me. Or maybe he does. But, shit. I'm terrified! Sometimes his mood swings are so. . .alarming, that I'm guessing he has some issues going on upstairs. I gulp back the bitter flavor of panic in my throat and stumble backwards. Something pointed jabs into my arm.

"Um, I don't know. I swear I don't know." I mumble, flushing a nervous, pale red. "I've never seen anything like this place before in my entire life, but, it almost. . . ._feels_ like I have. I can't explain it. I just knew how to fix it. Please. I'm sorry." I babble inanely. The blush spreads like a wildfire across my cheekbones.

A horrible moment of silence passes after my idiotic ramble. Sinclair's tightened expression drops into a frown. He blinks, and the fire in his irises begins to ebb. Like the tide. Sometimes, you want to go swimming with its gentle current. And other times, one wrong step, and you'll be washed out with the rolling waves.

Sinclair reminds me of that. The ocean. His shifting emotions. Okay, I just heard that, and it sounded pretty lame. Wow. The ocean? Really? I am such a dork.

"Alright. Relax, kid. Breathe. I didn't mean to attack ya." Sinclair holds up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. " I just wasn't expecting. . .any of that. You got anymore aces up your sleeve?"

"I sure as hell hope not! I've always been real lousy at poker." I breathe out, sagging back against the wall with relief. "And if you weren't expecting that, than how the do you think _I_ feel, buddy?"

Well, that wasn't any more awkward than usual. I guess.

He rubs a hand along his jaw and watches me. The second the shutters close over his face, he becomes impossible to read. I mean, I can't read expressions as it is, but Sinclair seems to be something entirely different. I'd hate to play cards with him, though, that's for sure.

Then, as he casually stares back and folds his arms over his shirt, there's a flash of white, straight teeth. This smile is like the Cheshire Cat's.

"Well, ain't that fascinating." He hums, as the bathysphere gives a sudden lurch.

I open my mouth. . .only to bite down on my tongue, scrabbling for purchase as we swiftly descend into darkness. About four seconds later, I'm breathing so hard and so fast I'm sure I'm about to have a panic attack. Little lights even start to flash in front of my eyes, but then I blink, and I realize that the lights are coming from an electronic system I didn't notice earlier. A projecting screen is positioned on an upper portion of the curved metal wall. Hazy shades of black and white roll across the screen as it buzzes to life.

This is. . .huh. I frown at Sinclair. He leans back, away from the screen, and rolls his eyes in reply. His hands clench into fists over his shirt. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the main event. . . ." He mutters mockingly under his breath.

Right on cue. A picture of a man flashes into view. He's sitting in a chair, staring confidently at the camera as he smokes a pipe.

_"I am Andrew Ryan, and I'm here to ask you a question," _He says. His voice bounces powerfully around the walls of the sphere, with faint interruptions of static crackling from the little speakers. I listen, transfixed, despite Sinclair's huffs in the corner.

_"-is a man not entitled to the sweat of his own brow?_

_"No," says the man in Washington. "It belongs to the poor."_

_"No," says the man in the Vatican. "It belongs to God."_

_"No," says the man in Moscow. "It belongs to everyone."_

_I rejected those answers._

_Instead, I chose something different._

_I chose the impossible._

_I chose. . . ."_

Mr. Andrew Ryan pauses for a moment. It's as if he's timed his speech perfectly with the second that the Bathysphere emerges from the shadows and speeds into the bright, bluish glow of the ocean, so many fathoms beneath the surface. And what I see sprawling out before me, as I trip over to the wide front windows and press my face against the cold pane, is the most magnificent sight I have ever laid eyes on in my whole life.

A city. A beautiful, mesmerizing, underwater utopia, glowing with life and stretching for miles and miles into the rippling darkness beyond.

_"Rapture." _Andrew Ryan finishes, his voice nearly bursting with pride.

"Home sweet home." Sinclair adds dryly.

I miss the sarcasm in his statement. I'm just too hypnotized by my surroundings to notice anything else. My wide eyes are simply glued to every surface, every sign, every neon light, every little sea creature that swims on past us. . . .

I can hardly breathe from the sheer wonderment of it all.

_"A city where the artist would not fear the censor." _Ryan continues to explain. ___"Where a scientist would not be bound by petty morality. Where the great would not be constrained by the small._

_And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become __your city as well."_

**XXX**

IT'S DONE! *phew* Man, revising is exhausting! I hope it's off to a better start than before, though. Thank you all for tuning in! The next edited chapter should be up soon.


	2. ii

**A/N: **I hope these chapters aren't too long. :/ I can trim them down or split them up if your eyes cross after this much type.

Anyhow, would you kindly read and review?

**XXX**

**2.** **Welcome to Paradise**

So. I'm not dreaming. But whether or not this is an actual nightmare. . . I haven't quite decided yet. I mean, after surviving a plane crash and being saved from drowning, twice, I'm just kind of glad to be alive. And I'm definitely glad that I'm not alone. Even if it means I'm stuck with a guy like Augustus Sinclair for who knows how long.

He's weird, but he seems to know his way around. You can't really ask for more than that when you've just plunged I-don't-know-how-many thousands of leagues into the unknown depths of the ocean in a bathysphere. And, now. . . Now, I'm gawking out of the said bathysphere's window at a beautiful, glowing metropolis sitting, as if it's the most normal thing in the world, on the sea floor.

Right. Not dreaming. Got to remember that.

"How come I've never even heard of Rapture before?" I finally manage to ask, ungluing myself from the icy pane.

Sinclair has pulled a Lucky Strike from his pocket and rolls it back and forth between his fingers. Like he's debating whether or not he should light it, in this small, enclosed area, where I would die from secondhand smoke in a matter of minutes.

"It was made a secret, kid." He stares hard at that cigarette and won't meet my eyes. "No one on the surface knows about Rapture. Andrew Ryan went through a whole lot of trouble to keep it that way, too."

"You're telling me." I grumble moodily. I turn away from him and refocus my attention on the window again. We're rapidly closing in on a center building, easily one of the tallest across the overwhelming span. It shines spookily in the bluish gloom. Neon signs advertise things like cheap booze and smokes. There are arrows pointing to places called Fleet Hall and Arcadia. . . . And then the Bathysphere begins to turn right, into a locking system of metal pipes.

With morbid, curious eyes, I read the words that light up the moment we pass under each metal arch, towards what I'm assuming is a docking center.

_ALL GOOD THINGS_

_OF THIS EARTH_

_FLOW_

_INTO THE CITY-_

But the "y" in 'City' doesn't turn on very well. It flickers and sends out a soft shower of blue sparks into the current.

"_Rapture Transit Authority."_ I frown thoughtfully.

Well, that makes sense. I mean, to get from building to building here, I doubt the citizens use cars or bicycles. Bathyspheres seem like the obvious choice for transportation, and maybe they have a bus or train system located inside somewhere.

"This is so weird." I murmur, more to myself than to Sinclair, but I hear him snort behind me nevertheless.

"Kid, you don't even know the half of it yet."

That sounds. . .disturbingly ominous. I feel his stare digging into my back, but this time, I refuse to look at him.

The bathysphere begins to ascend, and gilded bronze walls slide down the window and out of sight again. There are even _more_ advertisements on these walls. . . .but they're for products I can't even try to begin understanding. Plasmids? What the fuck is a plasmid?

I blink, eyes widening as the signs shift from a telekinesis "plasmid" to things called "Incinerate" and "Electro Bolt. . . ." The list goes on and on and on. Bewildered, fascinated, I can't help glancing back at Sinclair. Thousands of questions burn through my eyes.

But as he opens his mouth to maybe explain some method to this madness, an amused quirk to his top lip, I hear a muffled voice beyond the bathysphere. With a start, I whip around and almost fall over. We've ground to a swaying halt, and before us, shifting out of focus on the walkway, is a man shrouded in darkness.

"Please, no. . ." The man whimpers. "Don't hurt me. . ."

The lights outside flicker. On. Off. On. . . .and then off again. I swallow nervously and back away from the window. Something heavy and thick slides down my throat and coils uneasily in the pit of my stomach. The city's exterior looked so lovely, so _captivating_. I don't. . . I don't get it. What's happening? What's wrong with that man?

Do I even want to know. . ?

"Stand back." Sinclair whispers harshly. The sound seems magnified, somehow, in the silence, and I flinch at the intensity of the demand. His black eyes are narrowed, unblinking. He pushes me gently to the side as he takes a step forward, and I realize with a startled frown that he's taken a stance partially in front of me.

How, heroic? Whatever it is, I don't complain. I can barely manage an affirmative squeak in response as we both watch, with bated breaths and bristled shoulders, the man slowly back up, towards the bathysphere. His hands are trembling, raised in surrender as he falters . .

But then, as he nears the pale light issuing from the sphere, I see another somebody advancing on the defenseless man from the shadows. Hunched over and grotesquely stretched out, wrinkled skin, long and awkward limbs with bones poking out at all of the wrong angles. . . .and. . . .hooks? Hooks for hands?

"What the fuck?" I whisper hoarsely.

There's a flash of movement and the man stumbles with a gasp, begging, pleading, a hand over his stomach as splashes of dark crimson rain down upon the cement. I immediately cover my mouth. . . .horrified.

Panic burns my eyes. Frigid and solidifying terror knots up in my chest. Oh. Oh, holy full metal fucking jacket. Did that just. . ? Did I just see. . ? _Fuck!_

"Brace yourself, kid." Sinclair warns softly. I feel weight, warmth, and strength rush through me as he draws an arm around my shoulders.

What? Brace myself for what-?

I feel my legs about to collapse from underneath me as the creature delivers the killing blow, sinking its hooks into the man's chest. Ripping out guts and innards and strewing them across the floor with inhuman speed. Blood splatters the window of the bathysphere and I shudder, this time covering my face, and, unashamedly, burying myself against the front of Sinclair's shirt.

I can't stop shaking. I squeeze my eyes shut behind my hands, but, no, the gruesome image is needled onto the inside of my brain. Those agonizing screams still ring in my ears.

What the fuck is wrong with this place?

"Oh, shit. Oh, holy shit, shit, shit. . . ." I choke out, clutching on to Sinclair as if my very survival depends on it (hell, it probably does, now!). "What the fuck _was_ that thing?"

Sinclair tightens his jaw and gently pries me off of him. I'd be bursting into humiliated flames if I wasn't scared out of mind at the moment, gazing at his darkening expression with tears stinging in my eyes. I should have known he wasn't kidding before. This is hell. Of course it is. It _has_ to be.

"That was. . .a problem. A big fuckin' problem." Sinclair admits grimly. "I had no idea shit hit the fan this bad." He scrubs at his face, exhaling long and slow, then drops his arms to his sides.

"Okay. We need a plan."

The bathysphere door swings open. But I don't move. I. . .can't. Because there isn't anything in _here_ that dismembers people. Why the hell would I want to leave this utter sanctuary now? That. . .that monster- it's still out there!

"Are you crazy?" I yelp. "A _plan?_ A plan for _what_? Why do we have to go anywhere? It's probably waiting to spring on us the second we leave!"

Fine. I'm panicking. That's safe to say. I'm panicking, and, hell. I don't care. I'm alive and breathing I sure as _fuck_ don't want to die now!

Sinclair stares at me. Hardly sympathetic, but his black eyes take on a certain degree of warmth. He knocks a fist into the metal wall and shakes his head. "That was a thuggish splicer. They ain't smart enough to ambush, especially when they know they're outnumbered. We should be alright."

"Um. " I blink, feeling some of my fear drain into confusion. . .and annoyance. I fold my arms over my jacket and frown back. "What? What the hell is a thuggish splicer?" Thankfully, my voice isn't as tremulous as my hands are, as I attempt to ball them into fists against my chest. . .to maybe regain even an _ounce_ of control over this insanity. . .

"Okay. You've earned the truth, Chandler. I didn't want to keep you in the dark, honest, but. . ." He trails off, thinning his lips. Anger surges through his face before the shutters close, and I can't tell how he's feeling. "Looks like I've got no choice. I don't want you goin' in blind."

My heart lurches feebly into my windpipe. I don't think that this is going to be a happy story. . .

And, hey. I'm not wrong. Sinclair gives me the brief, censored version of a tale that I know, in its entirety, is worse than any nightmare. It starts with this woman called Tenenbaum. She discovered the existence of a slug. Yeah, a slug. Exciting, huh? Apparently you can only find this _particular_ slug at the bottom of the ocean. Anyhow, there was a component inside of this slug that she called ADAM.

"Now, Tenenbaum was able to get the fundin' she needed to experiment with these slugs. She even managed to turn the liquefied ADAM into something useable." Sinclair explains, pushing a hand through his hair.

I take a seat on the single bench inside of the bathysphere and watch him, fixated on such tiny, shifting details in his expression. He raises an eyebrow at my devout attention. Of course, this makes me blush. But he only smirks, a little, and turns around to face me fully before he continues.

"Everyone wanted a taste of ADAM." He shrugs. "They got hooked on the stuff as soon as it hit the market. Levitating objects, setting things on fire. . .power at the tips of ya fingers. Who wouldn't want that? But, shit. ADAM is a drug like no other, I'll tell you that." He waves a hand towards the bathysphere door, the walkway, and the corpse laying in a pool of its own blood outside.

"People kept shootin' up until they just spliced themselves right out of the human race. Get it? Splicers? And judging from that one we had the misfortune of meetin,' they're kind of pissed about it."

His smirk is lopsided and full of sharp teeth. I can't even summon the energy to fake a grin back. Fuck it. I just turn around and yank on the bathysphere lever hard enough to hurt my arm.

Crazy. Everyone here is just fucking crazy.

But. . .nothing happens. The door stays open. Sinclair actually has the nerve to chuckle, and I feel like punching him in the face. This is anything _but_ funny! Who the hell does he think he is?

"What the hell did you do?" I snap, spinning back on a heel and glaring into those glittering black eyes of his. "Take me back. Now. I'll wait in that fucking lighthouse while you conduct your business at the Funny Farm."

"Ah. I'm sorry, kid." He straightens out immediately. "I didn't do anything. Promise."

I scowl. But. . .then I think about it. When he laughed. . .the sound was forced. He wasn't being a jackass. There is no humor, no warmth in his gaze as he steps over the lip of the bathysphere, and points at something on top of the rounded chamber. "I'm bettin' the splicer cut those cables. We won't be going anywhere for awhile."

Oh. Well. I clear my throat, irritated. . .and beyond embarrassed. My face flushes a sweltering shade. I can practically feel my skin burning off. "Um. Fuck." I mumble stupidly. Then I shove my hands in my pockets and kick at an imaginary rock.

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "I didn't mean. . . . I'm just. . . ."

Positively terrified? On the verge of collapsing into violent sobs or having a full scale mental breakdown? My shoulders tremble as I bow my head, tears blurring the glinting floor of the bathysphere.

"Hey. Chandler. It's okay, kiddo." I hear Sinclair murmur.

No. No, it's _not_ okay. How is any of this okay? I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. The bathysphere _creaks_ when he steps back inside, one foot over the edge, on foot on the walkway.

"I ain't going anywhere. You think I'd just leave ya?" He shakes his head with sigh. "I get that you're scared, and you'd be a damn fool not to be. But we ain't gonna last long down here at this rate." He brushes my arm, barely, fingers grazing the rip just near my elbow and touching my scratched skin.

It. . ._burns_. He drops his hand almost immediately afterwards, but I can still feel the ghost of his touch surging through my blood like electricity. The breath catches in my throat. I look up, eyes wide, and the tiniest hint of a smile clashes with the deep furrow in his brows.

"You're gonna have to trust me, Chandler." He says. There is an unmistakable note of exasperation in his low voice, and something. . .else. Something almost. . .fond.

I rub the back of my neck before, eventually, managing a nod. He's right. Who knows how long we'll be stuck in Rapture? I can't afford to lose it. I can't afford to lose. . .my only friend here.

"Okay." I tell him quietly. "I trust you."

It might be the worst mistake I've made yet. I still don't know who this man is. I don't know what he's involved in, or why he needed to get back to Rapture so badly. I don't really know much of anything.

. . .but when the words slip past my lips, I realize that they are the entire, simple truth. I _don't_ know Sinclair. His emotional outbursts are concerning and those endless black eyes. . .unhinge me. But, he saved me. Twice. I trust him. I do.

His answering grin is broad and only a little crooked. It makes his eyes crinkle up and shine. "Good. Good." He nods. "We'll do alright together, you and me. I told ya I liked you before and I meant it. Now, let's get going. Maybe we can find something to eat around here. . ."

I shake my head, unwillingly grinning back as he offers out his hand. "You are the strangest man I've ever met."

He snorts. "Doll, you ain't see nothing yet." Then, he winks. Yeah. He honestly _winks_ at me. I'm startled into silence and blushing from head to foot. He barks out a laugh.

"Sorry. Did that scare you?" He jokes.

I'm about to deny that fact, though my heart is suddenly lodged between my ribs, when something starts. . .crackling? I jump back and knock into Sinclair, icy adrenaline flooding my system as I prepare for instant death by splicer. . .

But it's only a service radio. Oh, man. I choke out a noise of relief as Sinclair, naturally, bursts into laughter. I punch him in the arm.

"Shut up! I was only testing my. . .ninja reflexes." I huff, flushing.

"Fine by me." He snorts. "At least they're working."

"Fuck you."

His eyes glint teasingly, but he keeps his mouth shut. Good. I turn back to the radio and try not to focus on his stare stabbing into the side of my skull.

"_. . . .you kindly. . . .pick up. . . .short-wave radio?"_ A faint voice hisses from the device, broken up by bursts of interference.

I blink at in shock.

"Interesting." Sinclair taps his index finger against his chin. "But unnecessary. Can't afford any distractions, Chandler. We should go."

. . .what? A frown kicks the remnants of my smirk straight off of my face. "They might need help, though. We can't just leave them to fend for themselves." Wow- even I'm surprised by the stubborn conviction in my voice.

But, it's true! If there are still people down here, regular, frightened people. . .why _shouldn't_ we try and find them? How does that saying go- something about strength in numbers? That seems like a pretty good idea to me!

Sinclair arches an eyebrow. "Hey. You can answer it. Be my guest." He shrugs. "But I ain't taking responsibility for another life. You do this, I want no part in it."

I scowl at him. "Fine." Is that selfishness, or cowardice? I don't know. How can he be either, after everything he's done for me so far?

Shit. Why the hell do guys have to be so confusing?

Drawing in a breath, I unclip the radio from its holster and start fiddling with the dials. My mind is completely made up. I would want someone to help _me_ if _I_ were stuck down here alone. Definitely! I don't know what Sinclair's problem is.

"Uh, hello? Anybody home?" I wonder, as I turn up the volume.

"_Hello?"_ The strained voice asks back. Male. The reception comes in crystal clear, thanks to my magic touch.

"_Oh, thank God somebody can hear me." _The man sounds exhausted, and utterly relieved. Not to mention the fact that he has a wicked accent. Unlike Sinclair's, this one I can recognize immediately as a definitive Irish brogue.

"_I'm Atlas."_ He introduces._ "Bloody hell, I don't know how you could have survived that plane crash."_

"Yeah, that makes two of us, buddy." I agree. "I'm Molly."

Sinclair rolls his eyes and motions for me to follow him with a short, jerking nod. His shoulders are tense, reflecting a sudden, rolling fire in his eyes as he turns away. "Hurry up, kiddo. We've got to move."

What the hell is it, now? I frown, hoping. . .honestly hoping that I didn't do something to piss him off. Is he really that upset over the stupid radio? I scuff my shoes, having to split my focus when the speaker crackles again in my hand.

"_Boy, I am certainly glad to meet you, Molly."_ Atlas sighs. _"And your companion is right, I'm afraid. You really aren't safe anywhere in Rapture, but you should head for higher ground."_

"Higher ground." I repeat blankly. "Um, okay." That doesn't really make any sense. Does it? Shouldn't we go _lower,_ if anything? Hmm.

"And this is Sinclair, by the way." I avert my gaze instinctively when I step out of the bathysphere. The damp air is cool, almost drafty. I hold my breath and try not to look at that poor dead body splattered on the concrete.

"_Good to meet you both."_ The Irishman replies.

Atlas has a strong, steady voice. Listening to it helps ease my nerves instead of fraying and splitting them into halves. Actually, he seems to have the exact _opposite_ effect on me that Sinclair has. . . He's calming. Sinclair, more or less, tends to make me nervous.

I hold the radio close as I stumble along after Sinclair, into the subdued, watery light that filters in through floor-to-ceiling windows. The whole building we're in is massive. I can't help looking around with humbled, unworthy eyes at the sheer magnificence of the architecture.

Under any other circumstances. . . Yeah. It would have been even more amazing than I can describe. But it kind of kills the buzz when you think that such an extraordinary place might be your tomb. Ouch. Okay, no more angst.

. . .if I can help it.

"This way, Chandler." Sinclair brusquely instructs. He strides by the windows and doesn't even glance at them. Well, if he lived here, he's probably seen all of this countless times before. Maybe the feel of the place loses it grandeur after it's been overrun by horrible mutated monsters. . .

"Coming." I swallow meekly, watching a shark swim past the glass. "I'm coming. . . ."

"_Relax." _Atlas reassures me. _"Rapture can be overwhelming to a newcomer, but I won't leave you twistin' in the wind."_

First, Sinclair. Now, Atlas? I don't get it. Do men from Rapture have hero complexes, or do I just strike them as so completely incapable of defending myself that they have to _do_ that? I mean, shit, I'm scared. And could I fight back against splicer if I had to? Probably not. But, still!

. . .well. That wasn't much of an argument. I guess it's just. . .weird. Don't get me wrong, I mean, I'm grateful and everything. . . But it's still weird. Sinclair might have a reason to help me out, but I can't even put a face to a name with this Atlas character.

"Thanks." I lightly settle on, my stomach fluttering strangely. "I appreciate that."

Sinclair scoffs. I consider tossing a rock at the back of his head, but think better of it and simply scowl.

"_I wouldn't thank me quite yet,"_ Atlas warns. His voice deepens into something. . .cold. Cold and empty and dark. The sound stirs up a haze from the corner of my mind. Something prickles along my neck, something. . .familiar. Something sad and long ago forgotten.

Shoot! That damn _itch _again! That feeling of holding water in your hands, having it slip through you fingers as you try and hold onto it for as long as you can. . .

But then it's gone. The memory. . .or whatever the hell it was, gone. I shake my head, unnerved by my own desperation. Do I really want to know? Do I really want to remember? What _is_ there to remember? It's just too much. Right now, it's way too much to focus on when I have to worry about honest _survival_.

. . .though, I'll have to face it sooner rather than later. That much I do know.

"_Hey, Molly? You're gonna have to draw that splicer out of hiding." _Atlas tells me gravely. _"Can you hear her? Listen."_

I slowly walk past broken pieces of luggage. Scraps of trash. Stomped on picket signs that say things like **RAPTURE IS DEAD** and **WE ARE NOT YOUR PROPERTY!** It's pretty sad, actually. I try and hear what Atlas is talking about, but at the moment, I'm more concerned with finding Sinclair.

I don't know how it happened, but he must have gotten too far ahead of me. . . I can't see him anymore. And I might have Atlas on the radio, but, he's just that. On the radio. He isn't here with me in person, and I feel my throat tightening in panic because I might have lost Sinclair while I was too damn distracted by that Irish brogue.

"I don't hear anything." I whisper, glancing around wildly. "Sinclair!" Oh, what am I going to do? I can't. . . I can't do this. . !

I'm about to scream. I open my mouth with his name blistering on the tip of my tongue, only to have a hand clamp down over my lips and someone yank me deeper into the darkness. Sinclair glares at me, black eyes on fire as his fingers dig into my face. We're so close, I don't so much as _hear_ his ragged breathing as I _feel_ it, vibrating angrily inside of his chest.

"The fuck are you doing, makin' all that racket?" He hisses. "Don't you hear her? Dammit, Chandler! What did I say about being careful?" Slowly, he lowers his hand, and I gulp in a lungful of air fast enough to choke on it. My face flames. And not just because I feel like an idiot, either.

After a long, tense minute, with Sinclair's taught body shielding me from most of our crumbled surroundings, I realize _do_ hear something above the roaring of blood in my ears.

I hear a woman. And she's. . . .singing to herself. My heart freezes. The whole thing, actually, has me shaking in terror. Her awful voice. The flickering lights. The pockets of hungry, menacing shadow, lurking round every corner. Sinclair takes my hand without a word and I stumble up a flight of wide stairs after him. The sudden motion has me nearly dropping the radio, my hands are so slick with sweat.

"_Don't worry, sweetheart."_ Atlas murmurs. _"Just a bit farther, now, and I'll have her."_

Sinclair pulls me along and we crouch behind a fallen, decimated pillar of stone. He gives my hand a squeeze and nods at me, jaw tight. I swallow and nod back. Because, there's that Splicer again. She's standing in a circle of light just beyond our hiding place, hooks clanking threateningly along the floor as she looks around.

"What now?" I mutter. "Atlas, what are you planning?"

"We don't need him planning anything." Sinclair growls. "Look, some of these rocks are sharp. I'm betting we could-"

But a sharp, deafening whistle cuts him off. It sounds like a damn bomb dropping or something so, of course, the most logical thing Sinclair and I do is duck and cover over heads.

"_Take that, ya damn splicer!"_ Atlas yells in triumph over the line.

Huh? I peek through my trembling fingers and. . . A flying turret gun. . . .robot. . . .thing, wails in from somewhere above us, and it fires a barrage of lightning at the creature. She screams, bleeding, trying to escape the pain. I hold my head and I can't even breathe. My ears are ringing so badly that they ache. I grab at them, praying for it to stop. Please, please, just. . ._stop._

It must be after an eternity when it finally does. Dust and silence settle down over us in a fog. The Splicer was gunned down successfully. It's now a mangled, bloody pulp in the corner, next to the blocked remnants of a nearby doorway. I suck in a small, shaky breath, but even that hurts.

"Are you okay?" Sinclair and Atlas ask simultaneously.

One, sounding concerned, the other, staring at me with eyes black and worried. But the moment Sinclair hears the brogue from the radio, he bristles and stands up. Something is definitely going on with this. Something that I can't quite understand.

"Yeah. We're fine." I mumble. "I can't believe. . .that robot guy was you? You saved us?"

"_Well, I thought you could use the assistance."_ Atlas hums with pride. _"I aim to keep you alive, Molly. They're aren't many friendly souls left in Rapture these days, and I'd hate for something to happen to you."_ He sounds so emphatic, so sincere.

I blush automatically. "Wow. Um, thank you. Again."

"_Or course, sweetheart."_

The sound of the nickname slides down my throat and stays lit between my ribs like a bright, comforting light. It even brings an embarrassed smile to my face as I climb to my feet, after Sinclair. It takes a moment for me to gather myself, but I find some stability on the uneven ground and attempt to pick a path forward.

"_Things are only going to get more difficult for you, now."_ Atlas sighs in apology. _"You should try looking for a weapon. Would you kindly check around those stones? There must have been some tools left behind. . ."_

Oh. Great. My stomach drops. I mean, it makes sense, of course. Find a weapon and defend yourself against the crazed addicts of Rapture. But. . .they were once _people_. People with _families._ I don't think. . . I don't know. Even if they tried to hurt me first, I don't know how I could ever do such a thing.

"Tin can. Quiet. When she wants your opinion, she'll ask for it." Sinclair finally lashes out. He's shifting some of the debris away from the doorway, arms and neck muscles tensing with annoyance.

"_Ah. Augustus Sinclair."_ Atlas purrs. His accent rumbles like thunderclouds, and I feel another sharp jerk in my gut at the sound of such familiar, brutal anger. But his voice is oddly. . .calm. His fury is contained.

. . .and that's what makes me nervous. When he's upset, he doesn't yell. The world grows silent and trembles at the feet of this cruel and frigid rage. It's almost. . .beautiful. Which _must_ mean I'm a bit fucked, if that's the first adjective I jump to use to describe the Irishman and his temper.

But it is. I don't understand it, but it _is_ beautiful. I can almost remember. . .what? My hands clench and unclench around the radio in frustration. Whatever I'm missing slips just beyond my extended reach.

"_The Conman of Rapture."_ Atlas continues coolly. _"Of course. How. . .convenient, you surviving the plane crash as well. Tell me, boy-o, what does Lamb have in store for your lovely companion, hmm?"_

Sinclair, effectively, freezes. He looks absolutely _murderous_ as he whips around, reaching for the radio as if he wants nothing more than to rip it from my arms and smash it underfoot. But he has an incredible amount of control. I mean, I end up gawking at him like an idiot as he breathes out, forces himself to calm down, and slicks back a wayward strand of dark hair instead of charging.

"Lamb is dead, as you well know." He forces out through a straining jaw. "Dead clients hardly make for good business partners." Then, Sinclair looks at me. His gaze smolders and I'm caught in its midst. Trapped.

Still standing here at the edge of the concrete and unable to move, replaying their confusing, hateful exchange in my head with disbelief. Okay, so. They know each other. I get that part. But. . .

_The Conman of Rapture? _My brain sticks on the title like a broken record as my shock slowly melts in hesitance. Sinclair takes a step closer, falters, and for the first time since I've met him, he seems just as reluctant as I am about where to go, what to do.

"You're going to hear a lot of things about me down here, Chandler." He eventually sighs. "Some of them are true. Some of them are lies. I can't make you trust me, but don't you. . .don't you _ever_ let someone else decide for you about what I am." He grabs my shoulder, holds on tight, and I feel like I'm falling through the sky.

"I risked my neck for you, kid." He whispers. "I'd do it again, too. But I won't do this. You've got to pick one. Ditch the tin can and come with me, or go. Now. Because I can't stand it." His eyes are wide, manic. . .imploring. I don't know what to do. I've bitten my tongue straight through and blood fills my mouth.

"Atlas is not a character you want to get mixed up with." Sinclair drops his hand and puts an extra foot of space between us. I feel. . .cold. Without him close.

"But I ain't telling you what to do. If you want to leave, I got no hard feelings." He promises firmly.

I drop my eyes from his and stare at my shoes, burning with shame. "That's. . .not fair." I can't help muttering. "Making me choose like this." It's childish to play that card, I know, but I feel. . ._awful._ What the hell am I supposed to do now? How _can_ I choose?

I like Sinclair. I like Atlas. Sinclair saved my life. Atlas saved my life. But Atlas. . . I don't know. There's something about him, like there's something about this city. . . It just _fits_ inside of me. Like, I'm the outside frame of a jigsaw puzzle, searching for the rest of my pieces to complete the final picture. Rapture itself is one of those pieces, definitely. And Atlas. . . There's something about him I just can't leave behind. Something lurking beneath that friendly brogue of his that. . .my subconscious recognizes. I think he's a piece, too. But I won't ever know if I get rid of him.

Sighing, I shake my head and force myself to lift my chin. I square my shoulders, stand up straight. Sinclair's brows furrow and he frowns, as if he already knows what I'm about to say.

"This is. . .complicated." I admit uncomfortably. "And I appreciate everything you've done for me. . . But I can't, Sinclair. I'm sorry. I can't do it." How can I explain to him something that I don't even understand myself?

I try and convey as much as I can. . .without saying it. How hard this is. How conflicted I am. I want _both_ of them, but, I know that isn't fair, either. Sinclair stares at me steadily, unblinking. The shutters are closed and his face is completely expressionless.

"Suit yourself, Chandler." He finally shrugs. "I've got my own channel, if you change your mind." He turns away from the blocked door and moves to stride off into the darkness. "Atlas. . .he's leading you over a cliff. I know he is. Just. . .watch yourself, okay?"

"I don't believe you." I whisper miserably.

Sinclair shrugs again. "Like I said. Believe what you want. I'll be around." And with that, I watch him vanish from sight, feeling sick with guilt and worry. But knowing I had to make this choice, and confidently believing that I chose right.

I _have_ to know what's going on, here. I do. This is what matters to me most right now. Atlas is key, somehow, in finding these answers. Sinclair. . .he'll be okay. He will be. I can't think any other way.

When the final echo of Sinclair's footsteps fade, swallowed up by the unsettling silence of the transit station, the service radio buzzes at my hip.

"_You. . .stood up for me." _Atlas comments. He sounds. . . .funny. Distant. Surprised, maybe.

"Yeah, I did." I rub the back of my prickling neck and kneel down in front of the pile of debris. "I still don't know you very well, but, you saved me and offered to help me out. I won't take that for granted. Besides, I'm pretty sure I owe you the benefit of the doubt after. . .everything."

"_Ah."_ Atlas hums._ "This blindly trustin' attitude of yours is what's gonna get you killed in Rapture, my dear. Good thing I'm the nicest guy you'll meet down here, 'cause you won't be able to afford anything else ."_ He says, a grin flitting through his voice.

Was that a joke? I shake my head and end up grinning all the same as I dig through the stone. "Okay. Great. Good to know what you think of me, buddy. It really helps."

He laughs brightly. The warm, nostalgic sound washes through me like sunshine. It's kind of funny. I mean, it's funny because I like hearing it.

"_Of course, Molly. I also aim to please."_

I snort under my breath, knuckles scraping against something sharp amidst the rock. "Oh, hey! I think I found something." After a rough few minutes, I'm able to extract a rusted red wrench from the heap. Bleeding fingers is a small price to pay for surviving.

"_Well done. That'll work just fine."_ Atlas approves.

Right. Because, I'm going to have to use it. Against people. Even against things that _used_ to be people. . . I fight back a shudder as I stand up on weak, unsteady ankles. How? How am I going to be able to do this? Squaring my jaw, I give the hefty piece of metal a few experimental swings. It's pretty good-sized. Capable of doing some serious damage to an unsuspecting splicer skull. . .

And that makes me feel, if possible, worse, as my stomach twists into knots. "Okay. Okay. I can do this." I mutter to myself. But my voice is hardly convincing.

Atlas clicks his tongue patiently over the line._ "Chandler, if you plan on makin' it out of here alive, you've got to get over yourself. I hate to break it to ya, but that's just the way it is down here. Splicers aren't exactly the friendliest sort." _

"Right." I breathe out. The paint flakes off of the wrench like dried blood. "Right. Of course."

. . .man. I am so screwed. But I wave a hand at the blinking security camera to try and let him know. . .that I can handle this. Or I can at least try to.

"_Why don't you clear away some of that rubble?"_ Atlas suggests_. "Bet you can get through that doorway somehow." _

"Good idea." I agree and, with a heavy swing, I start pounding away at the stone. It's surprisingly fast and easy work. Rapture must have been falling into ruin for years, because the broken pillars are soft and crumbly with age.

I want to ask the Irishman about _everything_ as I work. But I don't even know where to start! This is so overwhelming, and all I'm really able to concentrate on is his hazy familiar, voice. . .

"Hey, buddy. . ?" I begin, hesitating, and biting my lip as I wipe a trail of sweat from my forehead. This is probably going to be awkward. In fact, I'm sure this is going to be very awkward. What hasn't been so far?

"_What's up, kiddo?"_

"Um, well, have we ever. . .met before?" I wonder quietly. The last of the wreckage tumbles out of the way in a thick cloud of dust. I wince and shield my eyes, but the particles cling to my skin like magnets and swirl with violent sentience through the damp air.

Before me, a staircase stretches out into dappled shadow. The silence is. . .unnerving. Maddening. The wrench is suddenly feeling fifty pounds heavier and incredibly awkward in my left hand. My palm is so sweaty, I'm probably going to drop it at the first signs of combat.

The radio is quiet for a long moment. _"Not to my recollection, Molly. Since you must be a new addition to our darling city, I doubt we have."_ Atlas eventually replies. Maybe he sounds evasive. Or maybe it's just me.

Whichever it is, his blank answer isn't good enough. But why would he need to lie about something like that? Am I just being paranoid?

"Fair enough." I shrug, though it's hard to shake the impression that he isn't telling me something. "Just curious. You seem. . .familiar. I don't know. A lot about this place seems familiar. . ."

And then, that's when I see the couch. Yes. A couch. And it's on fire. And it's hurtling down the stairs straight for where I'm standing. Wait. What the hell?

**XXX**

I'm sorry, Sinclair. =( But he'll be back! Thanks for reading, and I hope these revisions are better than the originals so far!


	3. iii

**A/N: **A little. . .okay, _alot_ late, but, the next chapter is here! Thank you for the reviews, everyone! Also, a good point brought up by XxCheshireGrinxX that I forgot about Sinclair and ADAM. I've added that below. So, thank you for letting me know!

**XXX**

**3. Fistful of Lightning**

If only I had taken _karate_ classes instead of _violin_ lessons. . . Or, no. Would knowing karate save my ass? Well, I'd be in much better shape. . . So, hey. It wouldn't hurt. As it is, I'm standing at the bottom of a staircase and am about to be flattened by a flaming couch traveling at approximately eighty miles an hour. _Anything_ probably would have been better than violin lessons. . .

Huh. And I though that today couldn't get any stranger. Weird, how I'm too busy gawking at the inevitable inferno that is going to roast me alive instead of running far, far away from it.

"_Molly. . !" _A voice echoes distantly. But all I can honestly hear is the sound of popping and sizzling fabric. . .and a mocking cackle from the top step-?

"_Molly!"_ Atlas is screaming so loud that the speaker buzzes like a swarm of furious hornets. _"What the fuck are ya doing? Get the hell out of there!"_

Atlas? Oh, shit! I give a startled gasp and stumble backwards out of the doorway, my heart crashing so hard and so fast into my ribs that it must have broken at least a couple straight through my chest. My foot catches on a piece of jagged stone and with a _whoosh_ of air, gone straight from my lungs, I'm staring up at the vaulted ceiling with pain exploding at the back of my skull.

The couch just zooms on by and crunches against the wall where it didn't quite fit through the entrance. It spins, tumbling past me for another four feet until it hits a sideways pillar and bursts into a cloud of ash.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. I just lay there on the ground and try to regulate my breathing, nose wrinkling at the acrid smell of rubber and, well, couch material. The world is tipping beneath my crumpled, bruised frame, and I'm afraid to lift my pretty battered head, because I know the pain will spear me right between the eyes if I move too soon.

"_Bloody hell. Molly? Shit." _Atlas trills, sounding panicked. . .and sounding pissed. Incredibly pissed. _"Can you hear me, Molly?"_

"Yeah. _Ouch._ I hear you." I groan. Is anything broken? No. Just. . .badly damaged. Thank the heavens that the radio still seems to be in one piece. I close my eyes, reopen them grudgingly, and then drag myself up off of the dusty floor. Bits of stone and who the hell knows what else cling to my clothes, and I don't even bother to brush it off when I stand, holding my aching head between my hands.

Wonderful. I feel. . .just. . .fucking. . ._wonderful._

"_What the hell? Fuck! What were you thinking, kid? Were you even?" _Atlas demands frostily. His tone is hardly louder than a growl, and I feel the low pitch reverberate through my chest, down to my curling toes. Slow waves of molten fire licking through my veins as the memories slip, crumble, and burn. I can't even try and remember them before they've gone again.

"_If you weren't in that camera's range, I wouldn't have seen you! For the love of. . ." _His sigh is more of an irritated grumble. _"You might survive if you start paying attention to what the fuck is going on! Come on, Molly. This isn't a game."_

I lean my battered body against the doorframe, and it takes a long, painful eternity to even bend back down and pick up my wrench. It's. . ._humiliating._ Shame bubbles up in my stomach, complimenting the heat that flushes across my face. Okay. Fine. It's obvious enough that I need _help_. I know that. But, at this rate. . . Shoot. Atlas probably thinks I need something like a babysitter!

And I don't! Is it _my_ fault that I survived that plane crash and ended up here? I mean, how the hell can you honestly prepare yourself for a situation as skewed as this one? The blush burns to anger over my cheeks as I slowly angle up the staircase.

"Well, you could cut me some fucking slack." I argue back, grinding my teeth. "Do you think people on the _surface_, in the _real world_ have to deal with this kind of shit? Why the hell do you _think_ I'm not prepared? Dammit!" I swing my wrench into the wall as the mounting fury pushes through my exhaustion, my fear.

In a weird way, it gives me strength. It keeps me going. I have the swelling pulse of the anger to direct my attention on and not the bone bruises running up and down my arms and legs.

"I mean, I'm stuck in some madman's underwater city and there are druggies freaks trying to kill me!" I practically yell. "I'm SORRY if I'm having such a fucking PROBLEM adjusting to this new lifestyle!"

Does he think this place comes with a handbook? All things considering, I believe I've handled myself pretty well for having this thrown in my lap! But Atlas doesn't miss a beat either after I pause to draw in a sharp, pained breath. The metal of the radio seems to dig into my hip.

"_Maybe you haven't noticed it yet, but it's a dog-eat-dog world in Rapture nowadays, sweetheart."_ He intones sharply._ "There's no _time_ to adjust to it. None. You're here, and that's that. There isn't anything we can do about it. And, I'm. . . I'm sorry."_ There is hardly an ounce of fight left in his quiet, drained voice. I hear him sigh, and can almost picture him running a tired hand through his hair on the other end.

I know. _I know._ It's true. Everything he said is absolutely true. I swallow back the taste of rising guilt, thick and bitter in my mouth. My stomach clenches, muscles twisting unpleasantly at the thought of us. . . At the though of Atlas being upset with me. At us not getting along. I don't want that at all. It just. . .it feels _wrong._

I can't bear his unhappiness. I want. . .him to see that I _can_ defend myself. I want him to be. . .well, proud of me. Where that overwhelming need stems from, I don't know, but I know that's how I feel.

"_I want to help you, Molly." _The Irishman reassures sincerely. "_I don't want to fight. I don't want to fight about anything. But you've got to work with me, not against me. Please. We're on the same team, aren't we?"_

Pausing near the top of the stairs, where the edge of the cracked wall still hides me from view, I hastily rub at my eyes. My heart burns against my chest as a flood of emotion washes through me. It almost feels like one of those puzzle pieces. . .is staring me right in the face. And I can't see it.

"Of course I'm on your side." The words stumble immediately from my lips, without conscious realization. "I don't want to fight either, buddy. I can't afford to lose you. So, I'm . . .sorry. I'm just scared." I add, barely above a weak, shamed whisper.

The radio stays quiet. I twirl my wrench in my fingers and almost drop it, I'm shaking so much. But I force myself to exhale, long and slowly, pushing the miscellaneous pains in my body to the very back of my thoughts.

"_You have no reason to apologize. I promise you, I _will_ get you out of this place."_ Atlas finally speaks. There is such conviction in his voice that I can't _not_ believe him.

"_Can I call a truce, or is to soon?"_ He asks after a moment.

I've barely known the man and I can already recognize that joking lilt in his accent. Somehow, I feel a grin beating the misery off of my face. How the hell does he _do_ that? I swear, the sound reminds me of storm clouds parting and daylight streaming through the rain.

"No. I back that truce." I agree. It's a little ridiculous, the effect he has over me.

"_Good." _The radio honestly beams._ "Now, I hate to kill the mood, kid. . ."_ He trails off gently.

An icy lead weight drops into my stomach. The smile is practically slapped from my mouth. But I know why he gave the warning even before I make myself ask. I take a nervous peek around the corner of the wall, and there's that splicer guy. The one who kicked the couch down the stairs at me. He's talking to himself and rooting around in some spilled trash with a long, bent pipe clutched in his right hand, and a torn black backpack strung over a crooked shoulder.

I could use that pack. That pipe might come in handy, too.

Biting my lip, I definitely appreciate the silence from the radio as I test my wrench in my left hand, then, my right. It's an understanding kind of silence. A patient one. Or maybe it's just an ordinary silence and I'm reading too far into it. Well. . . . I'm hoping it's one of those two, anyways. I don't want Atlas thinking that I'm a coward.

. . .whether I am one or not is a completely different matter.

Ultimately, I end up squeezing the wrench handle tight in my left hand and sucking in a short, stilted breath. The splicer is entirely unaware of my presence as he babbles on in a hoarse voice.

Okay. If I make it through this, I'm asking Atlas about everything and anything I can. Plasmids. ADAM. Doctor Tenenbaum. That Lamb person mentioned earlier. _Everything _about Rapture, I need to know. No excuses. No more wandering around blind and being caught unprepared.

. . .damn. Stop stalling, Molly. Put on your game face and lets get this over with. I'm getting a horrible feeling that I'll be doing a lot more splicer bashing in the next couple of hours, before I get out of here. So. Might as well get used to it. . ?

My strides are long, but careful, as I creep out from behind my hiding place. The blood roaring so loudly in my ears that I can't hear myself think. I don't even know if I'm breathing as the space between me and the splicer gradually shortens. Seven feet, four feet, two feet. . .

_CRUNCH._

I can't believe that just happened. Suddenly, time seems to freeze, and it's one of those absurd, nearly comical moments where I look down, see the plastic potato chip bag I've stepped on, and then glance up in terror to meet the bloodshot, lopsided gaze of one very surprised splicer. We stare at each other for a second. Then, he growls, and lunges at me with that crooked pipe.

Oh. Shit. I'm going to die.

Something hot gushes through my veins as I flinch, stumble back, and swing my wrench up in shocked defense. There's a _clang_ of metal on metal. Pain shoots down arms from the recoil of our clashing weapons, and I'm startled that my head is still attached to my neck. How?

What happens next. . . I don't know if _worse_ is this right word to use. But, what happens next definitely scares me. Something indefinable and fiery races through my veins, something searing hot and feverishly cold at the same time as I duck another wayward jab this way, lunge and feint that way, and generally act as I actually _know_ what in the hell it is that I'm doing. But I don't. I have no clue on how to fight, remember? I took violin lessons!

Yet it seems. . .it feels. . .as if my body knows. Like it knows _exactly _what to do, and I can't even begin to comprehend how impossible that is. Some bizarre, natural instinct does all of the work, figures out all of the secret moves and keeps my limbs twisting in bending in all of the right ways to avoid nearly every blow.

_Nearly_, every blow, I repeat. The splicer has a couple of tricks up his sleeve, too, and when I attempt to land a swing that will no doubt shatter one of his kneecaps, he jumps away, spins around me, and brings that pipe down with full force against my back.

Stars explode in front of my eyes and, hell, I go down _fast._ My back doesn't feel broken, but it sure as fuck doesn't feel good as I gasp in a breath and roll out of the way, just as the splicer gives a furious yell and slams a foot down where my head would have been not two seconds ago.

"Just give up, little girl!" He screams. "I know you have it on you! I know you're hiding the ADAM!"

"For fuck's sake, I wouldn't _hide _the ADAM!" I yell back. "I'd just give it to you if I had any!"

The splicer actually hesitates. He stops moving for a split second, halts his brutish swinging, and without even thinking, I leap to my feet and smash my wrench into the side of his head. There's a sickening _squelch_ of metal against skin, and the Splicer drops to the floor with a dent in his skull the size of New York.

Almost immediately, the strange sense of not-quite-adrenaline coursing through my system wears off. Then, the agonizing pain in my back kicks in as the bloodied wrench slips from my fingers. I take a step back, panting, sweating, gasping. It hurts to breathe. Everything. . .hurts.

An ocean of red is pooling around the splicer's head. I watch it, transfixed. Horrified. Mesmerized. Numb with shock that I was able to do such a thing.

"_Holy shit."_ Atlas comments bluntly._ "Where the hell did you learn to move like that, kid?"_ He sounds. . .impressed. _"I think I highly underestimated your ability to defend yourself."_

"Yeah." I manage to choke out, a clammy hand scrabbling against my chest as if might, pray, slow the frantic thrashing of my heart. "Yeah, you and me both."

Atlas laughs. _"You were amazing, Molly. Give yourself some credit."_

He thinks. . . .that was amazing? Really? I sink to my knees and an odd, hoarse sound punches its way out of my mouth. Something that might have been a sob or a manic chuckle that sends a fierce throbbing up into my head.

"I can't believe I killed him." I rasp, unable to look away from the splicer's broken, crumpled form. _This_ is what it takes to make Atlas proud?

"_Hey. It tried to kill you first. Remember?"_ The Irishman lightly chides. _"Don't go feeling guilty for it. Make no mistake that it wouldn't have felt guilty if it had killed you."_

"I know." I whisper, running my trembling hands over my eyes. "I know."

These awful images are going to stay with me for a very, very long time. It will be a wonder if I'm ever going to be able to fall asleep after this, always suspecting an ambush, replaying the bloodshed over and over in my head. . .

"Have you killed someone, Atlas?" I wonder quietly, and my voice is surprisingly steady for such a terrible question. It's stupid to ask, I know. Of course he's killed before, to have stayed alive down here for. . .however long he's been in Rapture. But. . .I don't know. I want to hear him say it out loud.

I just want to know that I'm not the only one. That I'm. . .not a monster. Even if the splicer wasn't technically human anymore.

Time stretches uncomfortably. I watch a single rivulet of blood wind its way down from the splicer's smashed face, onto the floor, circling underneath its neck, dripping down through a crack in the wood paneling.

"_Yes. I have."_ The Irishman responds blankly. There's a note of cold finality in his voice that I know better than to press. It's. . .well, unsettling. I drop the subject immediately and push myself up onto shaking legs. But I'm still partially relieved that I asked.

"So." I clear my throat, still unable to tear my eyes away from the corpse. "I should take that pack. Maybe even the pipe, just in case. Right?"

"_You're a quick learner, Molly. Definitely get into the habit of doing that. Check crates, bodies, trash cans, and whatever else, along the way. You never know what might save your life."_ Atlas instructs.

Good advice.

Quickly, trying not to injure myself more, I yank the bag off of the body and scoop up my fallen wrench. It feels like. . .something is watching me. Actually, I betting something _is_ watching me as I limp towards the far side of the room. Rapture just seems like that kind of place. Eyes, everywhere. Great. I shake off the shivery sensation and attempt to look around.

This new area reminds me of a café and a waiting room. There are tables and chairs sprinkled about here and there, upturned, stained, or broken. A round, latched door is settled between two more giant windows, casting in a haze of that bluish light. Weird. I'm still not used to seeing schools of fish swim by windows. . . .

Anyhow, on my right, as I lean up against an almost intact section of the wall, a carpeted staircase winds up and out of sight to a second level. And. . .wait. I think I hear someone talking. A little girl. . ?

"_My daddy is smarter than Einstein, stronger than Hercules. . ." _She trills.

My brows furrow. What the hell? It sounds like some kind of a recording. . .

"_Hey, Molly. What's in the bag?"_ Atlas politely interrupts my bewilderment.

I blink, forcing my eyes away from the stairs and looking back inside of the damp, musty backpack clutched in my hands. "Uh. . .let's see. . ." Though I'm having a hard time concentrating, as I strain my ears for that little girl again, I grin broadly at the sight of my spoils and feel something jump in the pit of my stomach.

Something like hope.

"Hey, there are medical supplies in here!" I tell Atlas happily, and pull out a bottle of aspirin, bandages, disinfectant, a sewing needle, and some thread. This is so unbelievably awesome, I'm half expecting the items to turn to dust the moment I touch them.

"Sweet, I hit the jackpot!"

"_Excellent. But try to conserve as much as you can, okay, kiddo? It isn't everyday you find useable supplies like this around."_

Right. Obviously. "Um. . .gotcha." I recap the bottle of water I was also lucky enough to unearth, though it's dangerously empty, now, and swallow down the four aspirin I had stuck in my mouth. Oops?

"_Anything else?" _The Irishman wonders.

"Hmm. . ." I carefully replace the bottle and move a few other loose scraps of material around. "No, I don't think so. Oh. Wait a minute. . ."

There's something. . . .glowing, at the bottom of the pack. Curiously, I reach in deep and remove a syringe. Hang on, a syringe? My throat tightens as I stare down at the needle laying flat in my palm. There's a strange, glowing blue substance swirling around inside of it.

Like it might be _alive_ or. . something equally sinister.

"_What is it, Molly?" _Atlas asks with a touch of concern, when I don't speak

"I think. . . .I think it might be. . . ." I try to swallow, but my throat feels as coarse as sandpaper.

Could this be ADAM? That drug. . .Sinclair mentioned? The one that created the splicers?

"_Is it a syringe? With a blue substance in it?" _The Irishman guesses lightly. _"It's called EVE."_ He pauses. _"Molly. . ." _His voice echoes strangely in the cavernous room. _"What, exactly, do you know about Rapture?"_

I put the needle back into the bag, feeling an overpowering rush of relief, though it doesn't last long. Because as little as I know, EVE might be just as bad as ADAM. Just as potent. Just as addictive. I swallow back a bitter flavor filling my mouth as my eyes drift towards the staircase again.

"I hardly know anything." I grumble sullenly. "And I want to know _everything,_ Atlas. Sinclair was only able to explain a little before that splicer interrupted us."

Something flashes through my head, then. Faded posters. When Sinclair and I were inside of the bathysphere. What had he mentioned, about. . .power, at the tips of your fingers? Plasmids. That was it. Well, at least I can cross something off of my endless list of questions. . .

"But I know about ADAM, in part." I amend quickly. "It's a drug that. . .what? Messes with your DNA or something?" I squint, rubbing at the back of my neck as I try and remember what Sinclair said.

"_People kept shootin' up until they just spliced themselves out of the human race."_

But, in all honesty, how awesome would it be if I could light fires with my fingers, like it showed on that Incinerate poster? Or bend and move objects with Telekinesis? The image is sorely, sorely tempting. Which probably isn't such a good thing.

"_Something like that."_ Atlas confirms wryly. _"The moment the ADAM touches your bloodstream, it alters your DNA. Twists it so you can harness things called plasmids, which grant the user specific, unique abilities. ADAM in its purest state, though, is what you actually trade in for the plasmid injections."_

Hmm. I consider this with a scrunched expression, trailing my hand carefully along the smooth railing as I ascend the stairs. Whatever happened to that voice, that little girl, I haven't heard her since. What could it have been?

"That doesn't sound healthy. Or particularly safe." I decide on. But I can't help feeling somewhat. . .curious. Okay. A lot curious. I'm too curious for my own good and, really, that's probably what is going to kill me.

A warm ghost of laughter filters from the radio, and I feel a swell of pride at the sound. _"I suppose, yes. You can look at it that way."_ Atlas acknowledges, evidently amused. _"But believe me, sweetheart, if you're going to make it down here. . ."_

He trails off and I stop in the middle of the staircase. My heart thumps nervously against my chest.

"_. . .you're going to need the upper hand on these splicers, Molly, if you're going to survive."_ He tells me quietly. _"Not all of them are going to be as easy to push over as that thuggish one you beat back with a wrench."_

Oh. Comforting. But he can't mean. . ? No. No, absolutely not!

I let out a slow, unsteady breath and heft my wrench over a shoulder. My stomach clenches, and I don't know whether it's from fear. . .or anticipation. "SO, you're saying that. . .to defeat the Splicers, I kind of have to. . ."

"_Become like them?"_ Atlas finishes for me, as gently as he probably can._ "Unfortunately, that is exactly what I'm saying_. _You aren't strong enough to face them as you are, and I know you are definitely smart enough to stop if the effects of the plasmids become too much for you. There is nothing to worry about."_ He reassures. _"I'll walk you through the entire process. I promise."_

It would be so _easy_ to believe that warm, comforting voice. And I. . .maybe. . .kind of. . . As awful as ADAM clearly is, the lure of it is almost sweetly irresistible. I don't care if cigarettes can kill you, I still want to smoke one and see what the big deal is.

That's how I'm feeling. And, hell. I'm sure my life expectancy was cut into thirds the moment I ended up here, in Rapture. What harm would it do if shooting up evened out the playing field for me? I mean, if I'm going down already, I might as well go down swinging.

"So, where does the EVE come into all of this?" I wonder, taking another step, and another, closer towards the top floor. My heart is about to burst right out of my chest as I realize that I am seriously going to do this. I can hardly catch my breath.

I'm going to listen to a man I barely know and inject an unknown substance into my veins that is going to screw with the entire fabric of my existence. And the twisted tingle snaking down my spine. . .is telling me that I'm not only terrified, but _excited._

I think, maybe, the blow to my head knocked a couple of screws loose in my brain.

"_Well, you can only use a plasmid for a limited time."_ Atlas begins.

"Oh! Then, the EVE syringe is like an energy kick?" I surmise, amazed at how fast I'm able to grasp the fundamentals of this madness. Because it definitely is, madness. All of this. And I'm beginning to think that I don't particularly care anymore.

"It kind of. . .replenishes the plasmid's strength?"

Atlas hums an impressed note under his breath. _"Exactly. I'd keep the one you found as safe as you can."_ He ends his sentence on a definitive note, but it still feels like. . .

It feels like he left something vital out of his explanation. I touch the tuning dial unconsciously as I hesitate, wavering on the last stair. What would Sinclair have to say about all of this? I can practically see his face, his narrowed black eyes and the cynical lift to his mouth as he huffs.

"_You've seen splicers before, kid. That's gonna be you right quick if you listen to Atlas, and then, what?"_ His honeyed accent drips through my startled consciousness, sounding much too real for only a figment of my imagination.

"_You'll never be able to get out of here if you turn into one of them monsters."_ He sneers, jabbing a finger at me._ "Besides, it ain't a good idea to mix business with pleasure. I figured you'd be bright enough to know that."_

I freeze the moment his flesh connects with the fabric of my jacket. Because, what? What the hell? I blink and vigorously shake my head, which hurts, but the image of Augustus Sinclair vanishes abruptly as pain lances through my skull. That I was. . ._not_ expecting. What the fuck _was_ it? A hallucination? I mean, there's no way I could have predicated his response!

. . .not which such frightening accuracy, at least. Especially when I hardly know him.

My throat sticks when I choke back a swallow. Come on, Molly. Keep it together. This place is going to break you within the hour at this rate.

I jerk my hand away from the radio, strapped securely to my hip, and a shudder spasms through me. Okay. I'm okay. He wasn't really here. It must have been an aftereffect of my previous, blinding adrenaline rush.

Yeah. It must have been. . . Right?

"_Molly? What is it? Are you okay?"_ Atlas asks in concern. The sound slices across the haze and I shake my head again, slower, but the apparition of Sinclair still haunts the back of my thoughts as I step onto the landing.

What he said. . .it made sense. . .

"No. I'm not." I mutter. "I'm not okay. I have the distinct feeling that I'm going crazy, and there isn't anything I can to do to stop it."

The Irishman sighs softly over the line. _"I truly am sorry, sweetheart. But you have to know what you're up against. You have to be strong. And, remember: you aren't in this alone."_

"Thank you." I whisper, voice cracking.

The line stays comfortingly silent. And I force myself to brush away the tears before they can slip in betrayal down my face.

Stepping onto the topmost floor, my stinging gaze is immediately drawn to a machine against the far wall. My eyes widen in disbelief.

It's tall, and glowing with an eerie purple light in the bluish shadows. Not to mention the fact that there are these giant, plastic little girls molded on to both of its sides, with these scary, plastic smiles on their scarier, plastic faces.

And, you know what? The thing looks like a damn vending machine. A vending machine! There's a thick glass plate protecting dozens upon dozens of tiny vials, all shining dozens of different colors, arranged methodically on an array of black shelves.

But the slot where the money is supposed to go. . .isn't a slot. It's a strange, curved tube that juts out at an angle, like you have to pour something into it to get what you want.

I stare at it wondrously for some time. A circular sign is perched askew above the products.

_GATHERER'S GARDEN. _

Wow. Just, wow. I approach the machine, awed. My wide stare travels over some of the organized vials and their tags: Hypnotize, a noxious, smoking shade of green; Winter Blast, a blue so pale it looks almost white; Cyclone, where whirling clouds spin angrily inside of the tiny glass tube; Enrage, a furious, almost pulsating red. . .

Damn. They have some pretty weird names. Their violent colors definitely don't make them look any more appealing, either. But I don't move. The colors might be disconcertingly overwhelming, and yet. . .they're entrancing, too. I can't help myself. Their terrible and beautiful all at once.

I blink, as a blinding shade of blue suddenly catches my attention. Nestled in the open pocket where the machine deposits the vials. . .is already a glass tube. A glass tube that seems to crackle with energy, its fluid shimmering like lightning.

My hands literally _tingle_ as I stare at it. Then I start feeling this. . .ache. Dull, at first, in my chest. Until it starts to spread, a sharp, crawly sensation, blazing just under the surface of my flesh.

And that's when I know. I am truly going to do this.

With trembling fingers, I reach for the small vial. The glass is surprisingly warm against my skin. Warm and encouraging. There is a pocket of empty syringes on the nearside of the machine and, automatically, I take one, licking my lips. Beads of sweat slide down my forehead.

I'm waiting for something terrible to happen. Something catastrophic as I uncork the vial, stomach lurching, but nothing happens. A wash of ozone sears through the air and burns my nose, but the sensation is hardly unpleasant. Actually, that's the awful part. I think I might even _like_ it.

Great. Crazy? That's probably the tip of the iceberg now.

Well. I don't hesitate or try and prepare myself for it, like I did before confronting the splicer. What's the point? I have no idea what to even prepare myself _for,_ as I stick in the needle and suck up every last electric blue drop.

Here goes nothing, then. I hold my breath and the empty tube _clinks_ across the floor. The syringe hums in my hand, poised just about my left wrist. I don't realize that the shakes have stopped as I close my eyes. . .

. . .and push down on the plunger.

The effect is instantaneous. And the effect is nothing but sheer fucking pain. I can't see. I can't breathe. My bones are shifting around in their sockets and I can feel this ripping, this tearing, deep inside of my veins, and it hurts like nothing I could have ever dreamed of.

Smears of blue crackle around my fingertips as I stumble backwards, tears streaming down my face. I'm in so much agony that I can't even open my mouth to scream.

"_Steady now. Your genetic makeup is being rewritten." _A distant voice is saying. Loudly. Slowly. I'm holding my splitting head in my hands and streaks of blue are winding around my arms like vines.

The air is thick enough with the acrid, burning scent of ozone to make me choke. I can't feel my fingers. I can't. This must be what dying feels like.

"_Just hold on. . ._"Atlas says.

I try. I really, really do. I try and hang on to the sound of his brogue as tightly as I can, but it keeps slipping farther and farther away

"_You can do this, sweetheart. Everything is going to be fine."_

I don't know how that's possible. My feet keep tripping backwards, and then something hits my waist. It takes me a moment to realize that it was the railing of the staircase, and the air whipping at my face and pulling me straight down means-

I've fallen over the edge. A sudden, blessed darkness makes the world wink out like a candle, and everything is gone.

**XXX**

The room is small and white. It kind of reminds me of a doctor's office, but the shiny plethora of tools on top of a metal tray, and the thick leather straps attached to the long white table in the middle of the floor. . . Yeah. They have me thinking more along the lines of 'torture room.'

Everything is just white, white, white. It gives the enclosed space a quarantined feel. Alien. A strong chemical odor burns my nose, but there is nothing I can see that suggests why the air is so harsh. I don't even know _how_ I can register the antiseptic scent through the glass, because there are no doors or windows around me that lead into that room.

But there's a door on the opposite side of the glass. A big white door with a tiny window at the top. It's a scary looking door. I can only imagine it being excruciatingly heavy. There are even bolt locks and chains nailed into the frame.

. . .damn. What the hell goes on in here?

Suddenly, I hear. . .screaming. Faint screaming, steadily growing louder. Suddenly, I'm not so sure I want to know what this place is used for. Suddenly, I could really care less about any of this at all, but my wide eyes refuse to tear themselves away from that looming white door as it _clangs_ open.

A woman with pinched, angular features rushes into view. She's wearing a lab coat, and her thick, dark hair is pushed back off of her face into a messy ponytail. Her skin is bright with a sheen of sweat, as bright as her feverishly shining eyes.

"Hurry, Suchong!" She calls back over her shoulder, sounding anxious, but not frightened.

Funny, her German accent sounds familiar. I don't know why it does, though. It's just another one of those things I can't quite put my finger on.

After a moment, another person dashes inside the room and the woman slams the door shut, shoving all of the locks and bolts into place. Effectively trapping them, as far as I can tell. Why the hell would she want to do that?

I shake my head. Whatever. The other scientist is a shorter man with thinning black hair, glasses perched slightly askew on his tensed face. Well, if he's Suchong, then that lady must be Dr. Tenenbaum.

What is this? A dream? Another hallucination?

Pressing closer to the glass, I notice that Suchong is holding something strange in his arms. Something wrapped in a blanket, crying and thrashing wildly. Something that sounds like. . .

"He's got to know that she's missing already." Suchong grunts. He lays the violently struggling bundle down on the table and wipes the back of a hand across his gleaming forehead. "Christ, we must suicidal to even be _considering_-"

"Silence!" Tenenbaum snaps. She walks with brisk strides to the other side of the table, blocking most of my view when the blanket is pulled off of the little girl and they start fastening those leather straps around tiny wrists and ankles.

"I will not have that monster around this poor child any longer. She deserves a _future_, a chance to fight for a better life! Do you not agree? And she will find neither if she is forced to remain in Rapture." Tenenbaum looks down at the girl with a surprising, motherly tenderness. It softens her sharp facial structure and makes her look less. . .well, scary.

"If you say so, Tenenbaum." Suchong frowns. "Though I don't. . . I mean. . ." He shakes his head, watching the scientist stroke the girl's hair until her cries begin to soften.

"Why does she mean so much to him?" He murmurs. "She isn't even-"

"It does not matter." Tenenbaum says simply. "I do not care how much he claims to love her. He is a liar, and he will only use and exploit her for his own selfish purposes."

Suchong sighs, but doesn't reply. He moves to the cabinet where the tools are, opens a drawer, and beings rooting around for something. Tenenbaum's expression grows increasingly sadder as the moments tick by.

"Where am I?" The little girl sniffles.

I wish I could see her, but Tenenbaum is standing right in the way.

"You are safe, my child." Tenenbaum tells her gently. "I promise you, that man will never hurt you again."

Silence. The girl hiccups, and I can see her hands clenching and unclenching inside of those leather straps.

"B-but. . .he never hurt me. He wouldn't, ever." She protests in a small, wavering voice. It breaks my heart to hear it.

"I w-want to go home. Please, _please_ take me h-home. I want my Dad."

Tenenbaum shakes her head. Her smile is forlorn, exhausted. She can't be that old, but there are strands of gray in her hair, and premature lines of age circle around her eyes and her thin, drooping mouth.

"You will be going to a new home soon, little one. A nicer home. You will see the sun, and feel the rain on your face. You will have a much happier life than the one you have here."

The girl breaks into quiet sobs again. "B-but I _like_ my old home. I don't want t-to leave it. I'm. . .happy, here."

"Hush, my child. . ."

The room begins to fade out of focus, then. The edges of the scene grow dark and hazy, until I can't see anything at all. Time slips by, empty, unnoticed. Forever must have passed before tiny pinpricks of light begin to filter in through the shadow. . .


End file.
